In the mirror that lines the back of the bar
they exchange furtive glances at each other.
When one catches the other one looking
they turn their eyes away as if embarrassed
and pretend to look at something else.
The hours turn into days, the days into weeks
but neither can seem to muster up the courage
to start the conversation.
Perhaps they are both too shy or,
perhaps they have both been burned one too many times.
Their moment finally arrives when their paths cross
on the way to the restroom.
A pause in the action and meek smiles are traded between them.
Did they conspire to themselves that this would be the night
or was it just the random call of nature that broke the ice?
As the bar empties they are one of the few left standing
They exchange their stories as if they’d known each other all their lives.
The days turn into weeks, the weeks into months and the months into years
Later they tell another story to their children about the time they first met
under the red neon beer sign